


Neon Butterflies

by shipwreckinabottle



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Coffee Shop - sort of, Dystopian Future - AU, F/M, Romance, Science Fiction, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 23:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckinabottle/pseuds/shipwreckinabottle
Summary: The shadows have been following him for years.Faceless apparitions and lurking silhouettes, darting from the corner of his eyes, unravelling, melting, disappearing into the dark.Most nights, the shadows are nothing more than echoes of a time long forgotten—fragments, pieces, and places of memories long past.But some nights, when the neonlight shines bright and the darkness becomes real, there are faces to put to those shadows—and bodies to hide.In which Mon-El is a former assassin haunted by demons of his past, living his final days in the aptly named “City of Neon,” his apartment in the same building as Kara’s little coffee shop, the only one left in the slums still using natural beans instead of the cheaper, genetically modified sort.





	Neon Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my wonderful beta - maybetomorrow/karadanversprince <3
> 
> The story takes place in a dystopian future of sorts :)

_The shadows have been following him for years._  
  
_Faceless apparitions and lurking silhouettes, darting from the corner of his eyes, unravelling, melting, disappearing into the dark._  
  
_Most nights, the shadows are nothing more than echoes of a time long forgotten—fragments, pieces, and places of memories long past._  
  
_But some nights, when the neonlight shines bright and the darkness becomes real, there are faces to put to those shadows—and bodies to hide._

* * *

In the glaring neonlight, the blood that ran down the side of Mon-El’s arm seemed to almost glow bright. Stopping for the first time that night, he removed his air-filtrated mask to better inspect the wound. The cut appeared clean and through, and the piece of torn cloth he’d been using as a makeshift bandage still held well enough.  
  
He might need sutures, but neither that nor the pain bothered him. Adrenaline took care of the pain, as did his training. The bodies of the two _Shadows_ he just disposed of did not bother him either. Scavengers were rampant in these parts of the slums, but even the most _desperate_ avoided the _Radiated Zones_ , where he’d dumped the bodies, like the plague. And for those who did not fear a death worse than hunger and hopelessness, there wouldn’t be much left from the high levels of radiation beside decomposed matter— _their faces were already melting when he left_.  
  
In another life, that might have bothered him. But not this. Not with the things he’d seen. What bothered Mon-El, however, was the blood. _His_ blood, to be precise, that even now, continued to drip from his fingertips. _Splat. Splat. Splat._ Droplets of red mixing into the dirty water below, leading straight in the direction of which he’d came from. _Traces_ of him left behind.  
  
The people tracking him had state-of-the-art equipment, tools, and devices that could trace their targets into a multitude of ways, from skin cells to even the condensation of his breathing left behind. He knew, because he’d used the same tools as they had a lifetime ago.  
  
And for him to leave blood, so much of it…  
  
Carelessness. He hadn’t been thinking straight, veins pumped full of adrenaline, heart constricted tight with paranoia. He should had dealt with the wound first. Moving the bodies should have been secondary. He had time; dead _Shadows_ did not come back to life. He would know. He’d killed his fair share of them.  
  
A distant rumble caused Mon-El to look skywards, the smog-filled skies parting as toxic rainwater quickly flooded the streets. He put his mask back on, the air-filters protecting him from the noxious fumes starting to rise from the ground up, diffusing in colorful vapors, reflected off the gigantic neon signs hanging all over the buildings around him.  
  
The small partition Mon-El stood under offered some protection from the rain, and as he waited for the sudden downpour to pass, he noticed the name of the casino right across the street from where he stood.  
  
_Lucky. Lucky. Lucky._  
  
His eyes flickered shut for a moment, as memories emerged like blots of insistent stars upon a darkened sky.  
  
_We live in a statistical world. There is no such thing as luck, good or bad. There is only adequate and inadequate training and preparation. And in our line of work, child, if you fall in inadequacy… you’re dead. Dead. Dead. And dead._  
  
A lesson from one of his instructors. A mantra Mon-El had lived by all these years.  
  
_No such thing as luck_.  
  
The neon signs pulsed bright into the night as Mon-El looked back in the direction of the _Radiated Zones_ , now flooded with toxic rainwater, where not even a single visible droplet of his blood remained. Then he turned back in the direction of the casino.  
  
_Lucky. Lucky. Lucky_.

* * *

  
**Some time later…**  
  
On the top floor of an abandoned construction site, Mon-El laid prone across a horizontal steel beam dangling half a mile high, his camo-tarp fizzling for a brief second as thunder rumbled overhead, bringing along a sudden and ferocious downpour.  
  
The fabric shimmered, then quickly faded again into the background. It took the tarp’s internal programming an exact half-second to recalibrate for the unexpected change in weather, rendering its lone occupant once more invisible to the rest of the world—as he’d been for the past three days.  
  
The thunderstorm worsened as the night went on. Toxic rainwater eroded the steel as heavy winds assaulted the old building with such ferocity the weakened foundations started to groan. Falling from such a height would mean certain death, but underneath the camo-tarp, however, Mon-El wasn’t the least bit worried.

He was secured to the steel beam with rope made of synthetic nanofiber. The same type found in military-grade kelvar that could withstand high caliber ballistics from close range; almost impossible to break, the winds would have to snap the steel beam itself before successfully knocking him off the side.

The change in the weather, though, meant a recalibration of his high-powered tactical sniper rifle. Mon-El accounted for the change in windspeed, then visibility, increasing the magnification and focal distance of the scope. The _Xiphias Gladius_ was not a discreet weapon; heavy and bulky, the barrel itself was almost the full wingspan of both his arms combined, protruding sharply from the rifle’s body like the long, powerful bill of the extinct swordfish it was named after.

He doublechecked the magazine next, thumbing through the hollow-point rounds before snapping it back into the rifle. Unlike most modern weapons these days, the _Xiphias Gladius_ was not fitted with a plasma core, but a traditional ten-round magazine instead. Which was exactly why he’d chosen it specifically for this mission. Plasma weaponry was superior to conventional ballistics, but bullets, unlike plasma bolts, did not dissipate over long distances. And for his target tonight, he needed bullets.

He’d been waiting in this exact spot for over three days now, and after another two hours of wait, it seemed like it was finally time. Mon-El activated the scope’s thermal imaging, allowing him to see his target perfectly through in the rain’s decreased visibility.

Three red dots in a room. Two seated from across the other.  
  
_Finally._  
  
Mon-El inhaled.  
  
_Exhaled_.  
  
Inhaled.  
  
_Exhaled_.  
  
Inhaled.  
  
His finger curled around the trigger.  
  
_Exhaled._  
  
And pulled the trigger.  
  
Then again, and again. Three soft pops, no louder than the falling rain.

A second passed, another, then another. Mon-El inhaled again—and saw one of the red dots, through the thermal scope, erupting into a mist of red. The person next to him followed and, as the third one stood up from his seat, the last bullet—fire from halfway across the city—too found its mark.

The weather grew ever more relentless as Mon-El scaled down the side of the building, his boots crunching into soil for the first time in days. Finding a sheltered spot, he disassembled the rifle and returned it to its case. Then, with everything secured and leaving no trace of his presence, he pulled the hood of his weather-enduring cloak over his head and left the building, a silhouette in the worsening storm.

* * *

 

As Mon-El left the construction site, he ran counter-surveillance routes to make sure he wasn’t being followed; carefully planned paths designed to draw and flush out any possible _Shadows_ in pursuit.  
  
After an uneventful hour, it seemed there were none.  
  
Backtracking a final time, he started back home.

His apartment was located in the Daxam District, right in the heart of the slums.

The slums were built on the remnants of a long abandoned industrial district; factories, foundries, and even chemical plants had been converted into a massive living space filled with hundreds of thousands of lower-classed residents.  
  
The reconstructed neighborhood looked hideous, filled with concrete monoliths protruding into the skies, infested with thousands of illuminated signs covering their surface in a grotesque mix of neonlight, as blinding as it was bright.  
  
The aptly named _City of Neon_.

His home for the past four months.

His rental unit was located in a high-rise block, converted from an old factory site, one of hundreds in the slums; all of them were similar in design – dull steel blocks at least a hundred floors high, every inch of its surface covered in large neon signs, like every other building in the _City of Neon_.

The expanse of neon signs took Mon-el some getting used to. But the rent was cheap and the slums were a place where people were watchful of strangers and kept to themselves, a place where hopelessness seemed to be the norm and despair lurked in every corner.

Perfect for him to settle in and keep out of sight.

Strangely, as the months passed, the neon signs no longer seemed to bother him as much. In fact, there was almost something comforting in their presence, for it seemed that there was little a _Shadow_ could hide—in a city full of neonlight.

* * *

 

Enter the large metal building, Mon-El detoured from the elevator and found himself a vantage spot overlooking the entrance. He stood there for a few long minutes, making sure he wasn’t followed, before crossing the lobby and stepping into the elevator.  
  
Pressing the button for his floor, he took off the bag containing the disassembled rifle parts and laid it on the ground. Then, as the doors started to close, he exhaled, feeling the tension starting to leave his tired body. After three long days strapped to the steel beam, he was finally home.  
  
His eyes came to a close as he enjoyed the brief second of calmness and relief.  
  
_“Wait!”_  
  
Someone shouted from across the building’s lobby, jarring Mon-El free from his relaxed state. It was a rude, abrupt awakening; his eyes shot wide open, the tired buzz evaporating in a split second, replaced in an instance by an elevated sharpness that had one of his free hand shooting for the holster strapped to the underside of his jacket, fingers curling instinctively around the weapon’s grip.  
  
_“Hold the elevator, please!”_  
  
It was a young woman, pulling along a cart filled with large wooden boxes nearly twice her size. She hurried across the lobby, gesturing at him to wait, and as she near, Mon-El noticed that her face was flushed red with exertion.  
  
Mon-El held the door open, moving his bag aside as the woman reversed into the elevator, pulling her cart along with her into the small, cramped space. “Thank you,” she said, sounding quite out of breath as the two of them squeezed into the back of the elevator. “You’re a lifesaver.”  
  
Mon-El nodded as the elevator doors slowly came to a close. The hand around the base of his weapon slackened, but remained. He studied the woman in his peripheral as the elevator started upwards, adding the image to the mental snapshot he took of her as she entered the elevator; long, blonde hair in a wet mess, soft features, a pair of cheap spectacles with the left temple slightly bent, and—if he had to guess—in her early to mid-twenties. She also wore a thick, weather-enduring suit, like him, and like most other residents of Daxam.  
  
The woman did not seem out of place, nor a threat. She was more likely to be an occupant of the building, rather than another _Shadow_ sent after him. But Mon-El knew he could never be too sure. And as his instructor once said: _Do not try to suppress your fear, your paranoia. It’s your mind’s way of warning you about the dangers you missed with your naked eye. Embrace them, for they force you to take precautions. Do you know what happens when you get complacent? When you get captured without safeguards? Yes. You die. You die. And you die._  
  
It was then he noticed that she was trying to reach for the elevator panel, but her hands weren’t long enough, and the cart—being in front of her and the panel—blocked her way. She tried again in vain, before turning to him sheepishly. “Do you… umm… mind?” She grinned hopefully. “Floor fifty-two?”  
  
Hundreds of possible scenarios rushed through Mon-El’s head in that split second. It didn’t seem like a trap, but he wasn’t about to discard all his training and safeguards because of a visual assumption. And with both the woman and the panel to his right side, he’d have to let go of his weapon in order to reach past her, which also meant making himself vulnerable to a hidden close-ranged weapon. A risk he did not want to take.

But still…

Her mental image flashed through his skull once more. There was a high probability that she was nothing more than a harmless resident. He did not recognize her, but it was impossible to encounter and remember the faces of the thousands living in the large steel building.

The alternative was to say no. There wouldn’t be much of a difference. She would just have to ride up to his floor before making her way down. But the last thing Mon-El wanted was unnecessary attention – he’d avoided it for the last four months, and being rude to another resident would surely be detrimental to that rule.  
  
So, he decided on the safest possible outcome. “Let me move over,” he pointed to the space beside her. “So I can reach over the boxes instead of climbing over.”

The woman nodded.  
  
There wasn’t much space left in the elevator for Mon-El to maneuver. He pressed back against the wall, and as the woman squeezed through the space between him and the cart, the back of her hair brushed across his chest, bringing along a strong whiff of oranges and mint.

Then, with their positions switched, Mon-El reached forward, senses in overdrive, ready to spring the second he noticed something out of place. But nothing happened. He reached over the cart and pressed the button for floor fifty-two, and that was it.

“Thank you,” she said again when the button for her floor lit up.

He nodded again.

The building was old and lacked maintenance, a relic of the past industrial zone; the elevator continued at a snail’s pace, groaning with each passing floor.

They were halfway to floor fifty-two when Mon-El felt something rustling near his feet. He looked down and—to his surprise, a ball of fur emerged from between the boxes and landed near his boot.  
  
It was a small puppy, no bigger than his forearm, with fur the color of pure snow. It started to lick at the soles of his boot and, for a long, awkward second, he wasn’t sure how to respond.

Then, the woman seemed to have noticed the puppy as well. “Clark!” she gasped as she scooped it up in her arms. “I told you to stay in the boxes!” She scratched at the puppy’s ears before turning back to him. “Sorry, Clark loves dirty boots…” Her ears turned pink as she said that. “I mean… I’m not saying that you have dirty boots… I… well…”

“It’s fine,” Mon-El replied. “There are no clean boots in Daxam.”

“That’s… a succinct way of putting it.” She shifted Clark to one hand and extended the other. “I’m Kara, by the way. Kara Danvers.”

He looked at her arm, then accepted it reluctantly. “Mike,” he said.

Her grip was a lot stronger than he’d expected.

“Mike…?”

“Just Mike,” he answered.  
  
It was one of his active aliases. The one his apartment was rented under.

“Oh-kay then.” Her lips pursed together. “You’re not going to report Clark, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… there’s a no-animal policy in Daxam Heights. Clark’s still growing so he needs his exercise. I used to be able to bring him in and out of the building in my bag but he’s starting to get bigger.” She looked at the boxes in front of them. “I make deliveries in the morning so I’m taking advantage of the spare boxes to smuggle him in and out.”  
  
“I’m not going to report him,” Mon-El said dryly. He couldn’t have cared less if there were ten full-grown dogs in her apartment. He wanted the conversation to end, but not to appear rude—just disinterested, like most of the people who lived in Daxam, people who minded their own business and nothing more.

She seemed to have gotten the message, as other than the occasional mewl from Clark getting his ears scratched, the remainder of their journey was completed in silence. The elevator dinged on Kara’s floor, and as she pushed her cart out, Mon-El was greeted by a noisy hallway filled with commotion, from pieces of conversation to the laughter of children.

Then, as the doors started to close, she turned back to him and waved. “Goodbye, Just Mike, have a nice day!”

Fortunately for him, the doors came to a close before a response was required.  

* * *

 

 

There were ten units on the ninety-eighth floor, and Mon-El owned all ten of them. With each rented under a different alias, he was able to control every aspect of activity on the floor, while keeping up with the illusion that _Mike_ only owned the apartment at the end of the hallway. That unit was chosen as the main of the ten, not for the balcony view, but for the direct line of sight provided in the direction of both the stairwell and the elevator.  
  
He passed the empty units and stopped in front of unit #98-10. Grabbing onto the doorknob, Mon-El twisted it to a forty-five-degree angle, then pressed his thumb to the bottom of the knob, where the biometric scanner he had set up to activate at that specific angle would verify his identity and deactivate the pump-action shotgun primed against the back of the front door.

There was a soft click as the door unlocked. But before Mon-El entered, he activated the UV-light function on his holo-phone, pausing to check the thin line of nano-fibre he’d stuck between the doorway before his departure. It was still there, invisible to the naked eye but glinting softly under the high frequency light, which could only mean that there weren’t any unwarranted guests waiting inside.  
  
Safe for him to enter. He did.

_Home._

There wasn’t much. It was a small place, the walls old, fading, and in need of fresh paint. The only furniture he owned seemed to be an old mattress propped up in a corner next to an unlit lamp, which overlooked a small dresser containing various pieces of clothing.

There was nothing at all impressive about the room.

Except for the false wall which lead to the unit beside his. The biometric scanner hidden underneath the fading paint blinked green as the concealed door unlocked, allowing him to step into the next room and closing the doorway behind him.

This room was somewhat more impressive, though, much like the first room, it wasn’t designed with comfort in mind, but practicality. Multiple tool benches lined the wall, filled with all sorts of weaponry and ammunition, from basic firearms to advanced tech, there was enough firepower in this room to arm a small army for war.  
  
Next to the benches was a small wooden desk, where an inconspicuous but powerful laptop sat. Light and portable, it contained more processing power than most broadcasting stations these days.

At the back of the room, was a small fireplace, connected to the multiple industrial furnaces located throughout the building, another remnant of the building’s past, one which Mon-El had put to good use. He turned on the furnace, the fire soon casting the room in an orange glow as he stripped and cleaned his weapons.  
  
Afterwards, as he took off his clothing, preparing to dispose them in the fire, he paused at his shirt. Something caused him to stop, only instinctually. It took him a second to realize it was the smell. Of oranges and mint.

Then, without hesitation, Mon-El tossed the shirt into the fire, and as it started to burn and fade, so did the image of the woman from his mind.

When there was nothing left but ash, he returned to the other unit, and in a matter of minutes, was curled up in the old mattress, dreaming of a life long past. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd like to see story-update-progresses, little snippets of next chapters, or if you'd like to talk about my stories, tv shows, or just life in general, you can find me @ shipwreckinabottle on tumblr.


End file.
